The Falling Letters
by MintoKitsune
Summary: It's been two months since "The Fall." John Watson has been suffering through a deep depression. His Psychiatrist suggests he write letters to the deceased Sherlock. Valentine's Day is on it's way. Will Sherlock finally reveal himself?  One Shot


"Every night, I dream of you. I dream of the fall. Every night I wish you didn't jump. I believe in you, Sherlock." John Watson looked at the first letter he wrote for the fifteenth time, sealed it up in an envelope, and placed it on Sherlock's bed. Despite him being dead for two months, Mrs. Hudson had failed to replace the tenant. Instead, she directed his NEW flat mates down to the basement room. John wished she had turned them away completely...

The envelope was simple, with a wax seal that John borrowed from Mycroft. Sherlock's name was on it in a distinctive handwriting. John's handwriting.

"So are you actually going to do it? What your psychiatrist told you to do?" Mrs. Hudson stood in the door frame, watching as John ran his fingers over the dusty sheets. He closed his eyes and remembered when they were in Buckingham Palace and Sherlock was almost defrocked. He chuckled slightly, but oh so sadly.

"She said it will help." He muttered, turning to look at his landlady. His eyes were filled with grief for only a brief moment before they turned stone cold. She sighed, turning around to leave. Before she did though, she looked at John's much skinnier frame.

"You should eat. I've made some soup if you want."

John shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

When Mrs Hudson left, John moved over to the dusty violin. He was muttering to himself. "I haven't been in here since..." He shook his head, picking it up. He pulled a rag out of his pocket and began to dust it off. He took his precious time, not stopping until there was absolutely no dust at all on the instrument. When he was done with the violin, he moved over to the furniture.

For the rest of the night, John Watson cleaned up Sherlock's room. It was as if he had never left. Except for the letter on the bed.

_****_

That night John went to sleep and started to dream. It wasn't long before he sat up straight, gasping for air. He was caked in sweat, his hair even sticking to his face because of it. He took a deep shuddering breath before he swung his legs out of his bed and he trotted over to his writing desk, in his knickers.

He wrote: "I had another dream. I was so close to reaching you this time. So close. My fingers touched that stupid coat of yours, but it fluttered through them as if I didn't even exist. You know it's hell without you here? Donovan always has this guilty look on her face when she sees me and Anderson looks smug. You always claimed he was such a twat, though not quite in that language. Lestrade offered me a job on the force. I denied him. I told him I don't want to do that kind of stuff anymore... Mycroft comes over for tea every day. He once turned down an appointment with the queen so he could still come over. I keep telling him he doesn't have to, but he does. I- I told them what you wanted me too, but then... then I told them that I don't believe a word of it. Just for the record, I believe in you, Sherlock."

When he was finished, he folded it up and stuck it in an envelope. There were probably about 25 of them just sitting on his desk. He scribbled Sherlock's name on the back, and sealed it with wax. Then he stood up, walked to Sherlock's room, and set it right on top of the last one. The he shuffled back to bed and had a sleepless night.

_****_

That next morning, John got up and looked around his room. Something seemed so odd about it. There was something missing. But what could it have been? He stood up and looked around. He closed his eyes, pulling up an image of his flat. When he opened his eyes, he saw what it was. Nothing was missing. There was just a cup of coffee waiting for him on his table. He approached it, writing himself a mental note to thank Mrs. Hudson later.

He brought it too his lips and took a sip. The cup slipped from his hands a moment later and crashed to the ground. He gulped and quickly moved over to write another letter. His mind was filled with doubts. Was this really going to help him? His psychiatrist had told him to write 'to' Sherlock every time a memory of him appeared. But would this really help?

He would try anyways. "I think I'm going crazy, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson made me coffee this morning and it tasted like yours. Remember that time you put sugar in my coffee? It tasted just like that. Really delicious (though I didn't say that to you then.) That's when I first knew you could be human. I mean, like REALLY human. You made a mistake, is what I'm trying to say. You thought the drug was in the sugar. It was really clever, but still wrong. And that was the ONLY time you've ever been wrong. And don't give me that bullshit about how you've been lying the whole time. Don't you DARE tell me that. I BELIEVE in you, Sherlock! I bloody believe in you, so DON'T TELL ME IT WAS A LIE."

It took John three hours to write that. He had to stop because of a shaky hand, and multiple times he started crying. That was the only place he ever cried, his flat. He did it so often, too. When he finally finished, the words were smudged in so many places it would probably be too hard to read.

He finished and sat down, knowing that Mycroft would be there soon. And soon enough, the older Holmes brother walked into the building. His tweed suit jacket was as neat as ever, but John could tell that he too was crying just minutes ago. He took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Mycroft." He said.

Mycroft responded in the same exact way that he did every day, "Good afternoon, John." He sat down, straightening out his suit jacket. "How have you been?"

"Good, Good..." Mycroft gave him a look and he sighed. "Not good. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night."

"I can tell."

John ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back into his chair, looking at Mycroft in a devastated way. "I had that dream again..."

"Did you reach him?"

John shook his head, looking even more hurt than before. "I was so close this time. I touched his coat."

Mycroft seemed to smile softly as if he were remembering the coat. Then he frowned, remembering that his dear brother was still dead. "Do you think it means anything?"

"You mean that besides the fact that if I had come sooner, I could have stopped him? …No." John closed his eyes.

They sat like that for roughly 15 minutes before Mycroft moved. He stood up and moved over to set his hand on John's shoulder. "You really loved my brother, didn't you?"

John almost groaned. "I'm not g-" But he stopped. Memories of Sherlock rushed through his head. When he had to punch Sherlock and purposely avoided anything that would leave a longer lasting mark. When they had to run down the street, holding hands. When he was being so completely, crazily childish. He opened his eyes. "Yes..."

Admitting it hurt so good. It felt like a hammer struck his heart to a upbeat melody. Badump, Badump, Badump. It sped up as the seconds passed by. He couldn't believe his cheeks were growing a bit hotter. And all together he felt like this news would be broad casted across the sky in neon rainbow colors.

Mycroft's hand left his shoulder and he saw the Holmes brother walk out of his flat. After a few minutes of sitting there, he moved over to the desk and pulled out a pieces of paper. "I love you." He wrote, before he put it in the envelope and moved it over to Sherlock's bed just like the others.

_****_

Over at the Police Station, Molly was examining a body. She looked over to the coat hanger and smiled slightly. There, was Sherlock's riding crop, gathering dust, just waiting to be used. "Good afternoon." The voice made Molly jump, and she turned around.

"Oh, Lestrade. Good afternoon." Her smiled was cleared off her face, but Lestrade had caught it.

"Something good happen?" He asked, moving over to look at the notes she had made on the corpse she was studying. She had been getting much better in her work and had actually solved a few cases simply by the body, but as of now she didn't have anything written down.

"Oh, no. Not really, no." She responded, turning back to the body. She couldn't stop the smile from forming on her face again. This time for a different reason.

"Why the large smile?" This time, Lestrade's voice was much closer. A moment later his hands wrapped around her waist and he pulled her close.

She was still smiling, but her face had started to turn red. "No reason. Just... it's almost the 14th." She tilted her head back to look at Lestrade.

He smiled too, "Yeah, are you busy that day?"

Molly's eyes widened in horror. The 14th was more than just a significant day for her. It was a significant day for Lestrade, too. And not just Lestrade, that day was important for everyone. Valentine's day! "Actually... Uhm... I am..."

For a second, Molly could see a frown on his face, but then he was smiling again. "Oh, okay. Cool." He pulled away, smiling in such a strange way. "Well, I have to go back to work. I'll talk to you later." And he was gone.

Molly sighed, turning back to look at the riding crop. "Ten more days..."

The letters only piled up on Sherlock's bed in the next few days. Some were only a few sentences: "Mycroft didn't show up today. I cried instead. I spent the time thinking of you," or, "It started raining. I remember when you made us play hide and seek with you, even though you were able to find us within five seconds." Some were much longer, "I thought I saw you today. Except it couldn't be you. This man was the same height, with similar hair, but he wore a leather jacket. You wouldn't be caught dead in leather. I- No, that was horrible. 'Wouldn't be caught dead in leather.' I can't believe I wrote that... Anyways, I wish it was you, but it wasn't. How could it be?"

Most of the letters were covered in tears. He hated writing them, but he really thought they would help him. He was only crying more because of them. He didn't even know why he continued to write them. It's not like his Psychiatrist was checking to make sure he was writing them. He hadn't even visited her since he started.

Mycroft hadn't shown up for days. It was now the 8th and he hadn't shown up. John was sinking lower into depression. He didn't even want to get out of his bed. He only dragged himself out of the bed when he decided to write another letter to Sherlock. They weren't in any piles anymore. They were scattered all over the bed.

When he was finished with the letter, he crawled back into his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He burrowed himself deep in the blankets, ignoring his growling stomach. An hour must have passed with him like that, until he heard a knock on the door, down the stairs.

He could hear Mrs. Hudson's quiet voice. "Oh yes, he's here. He's up the stairs. I'll go get him for you." Then her feet began to quietly walk up the stairs and into his room. "John?" She called out, peaking her head into the door. "John, Sarah's here. She's wondering why you haven't shown up for work."

John didn't move from his hiding place in his sheets. "I quit. I told her that. Tell her to go away." He said, sounding almost like a child. That might have been because he had recently been crying, or because he never wanted to see Sarah ever again. Seeing her reminded him of the time he took her out on a date, and Sherlock showed up. Well, that was most of his dates, but still.

Mrs. Hudson made a small 'humpf' noise before she shuffled back down the stairs and told Sarah that John was sleeping. The door shut, and John went back to his thoughts of Sherlock.

_****_

Two more days passed by and John had only left his bed to leave more letters. They were doubling each day. He would spend hours on end hunched over the parchment before he wrote a single word. Some of the letters weren't even completed. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't drank a thing. He ignored the coffee cups that were slowly filling up his desk. They were placed there each morning. After the second one tasted the same as Sherlock's, he didn't want to drink it anymore.

He never visited the fridge, because he just kept seeing that decapitated head that Mrs. Hudson had cleared out ages ago. He had no point to each lunch now that Mycroft had stopped showing up. No point of eating at all.

He had lost track of the date a long time ago. He had no idea it was the 10th of February. He didn't care.

_****_

Mycroft couldn't be found anywhere. Mrs. Hudson called Lestrade, who called Irene, who called the Queen, who tried to call Mycroft, but no one could reach him. Not even the British Government could find him. They had every camera out searching for him. He had been the only thing that kept John even partially grounded.

On the 11th, Molly went missing as well. She didn't show up at work, nor did she show up to Lestrade's. She wasn't answering her phone and she didn't respond to the texts. Lestrade was growing worried. Had she been kidnapped? Was she killed? He sent his entire team out to find her.

They had no luck. The 13th rolled by. Lestrade was more than worried now. He was starting to get extremely sad. John hadn't eaten for 9 days. Mycroft still hadn't shown up.

Mrs. Hudson went into John's room, a fierce look on her face. "John Hammish Watson! Get your bloody arse out of that bed right now before I make you! I swear if you don't eat I will kick you out and you'll be living on the streets!"

John peaked his head out of his blankets, looking at Mrs. Hudson with surprise. The surprise almost masked the sorrow, but the woman could see it in his eyes. "Now, come down for lunch, dear." Then she left the room.

John sat up and looked around at the dust gathering around his own flat. He sighed. He stood up and got dressed, moving to the bathroom so he could shave and make himself decent for lunch. Mrs. Hudson would yell at him if he didn't.

When he was finished, he moved down the stairs and to the table where Mrs. Hudson was already sitting with a plate full of sandwiches. He sat down at looked at her for a moment, before speaking. His voice was rough from not being used. "Sorry..."

He leaned over and grabbed a sandwich, eating it quickly. Then he reached for another one. He was starving. He ate five sandwiches before he stopped and settled down. Mrs. Hudson was looking at him curiously. "I... I miss him..." He muttered, before he placed his head in his arms and started to cry. This was the first time he had cried in front of anyone.

Mrs. Hudson moved over to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "I know. I do too. We all do." She stood there for a long time, just comforting John in the best way she could.

When he had calmed down, he pulled his head out of his arms. "What is the date?" He asked, wondering how much time had passed.

"February 13th." Mrs. Hudson responded quietly.

John bit his lip, trying to hold back more tears. "Oh." He stood up, starting up the stairs. "Thank you for lunch." Soon he was up the stairs and sitting in front of his desk again. He was going to write another letter.

"I'm so alone. I miss you so much. Tomorrow is Valentine's day and you still won't be here. I don't do anything any more. I lay in bed and write these letters. You became my life. Without you, I'm nothing. I think... tomorrow... Good bye, Sherlock."

He sealed up the envelope and placed it on the bed before moving to climb into his. John fell asleep in tears.

He had the nightmare again.

He was running as fast as he could up the steps. His voice croaked out, "Sherlock... Sherlock!" He threw the door open and saw Sherlock on the edge, talking through a phone. He took a step forward. John ran forward. "SHERLOCK!" He shouted his name, reaching forward to grab ahold of his coat.

Sherlock slipped out of it and fell to his death.

John awoke with a start. He looked around, his eyes resting on his alarm clock. It read 4:00. He sighed and stood up. Quickly, he moved to take one of the longest showers he had ever taken. When he got out, it was 5:15. He sat on his bed for a bit before getting dressed. Looking at the clock he saw that it was 6:02 now.

Moving over to the stack of envelopes, he frowned. After that, he moved to Sherlock's room. What he saw shocked him. The last letter he had written lay opened, unsealed. Someone had been reading the letters.

He grew angry quickly. The first thing he did was kick the bed and make an angry shout. Was it Mrs. Hudson? His Psychologist? Quickly, he grabbed the last letter and rip it in half. He put the pieces together and ripped them again.

From there, he continued to rip up every last single letter that he had written. He threw the pieces on the beds, only stopping when there was one left. This letter was different than the others.

It had John's name on the envelope. He itched to take it apart, but stopped himself. It was probably left by whomever read his letters. He shoved it in his pocket. By then, he had been crying. The handwriting didn't look familiar.

John pounded down those steps faster than he ever had before and was out the door by 7:37. He ran as fast as he could. He didn't want to take a taxi, for fear that he'd change his mind. He ran to St Bart's Hospital, bumping into many people. He ignored their shouts and continued.

He busted through the doors and sprinted up the stairs as fast as he could. The next thing he knew he was going through the roof door, and was near the ledge. He looked over it, letting the slight breeze cool off his tears.

He stepped onto the ledge and pulled out the letter. The commotion below went unnoticed to him. He opened the letter and read the familiar hand writing. Why did it look like Sherlock's? He read the words:

"Dear, John. First, I want to apologize. I want to apologize for lying to you and for putting your life at risk. Please understand that I didn't mean to hurt you, but I have done that in so many ways. I was trying to save you. John, I read every letter you wrote to me. I saw you every day. But you couldn't see me. You could know I was still alive. John, I am still alive. I didn't die in that fall. I made sure of it. I couldn't leave you. But I also had to be sure you were completely safe. You see, John, you were in danger. If I didn't die, they would kill you. But I didn't die, and I tracked them down. You are safe and I am alive. I'm coming back. I understand you must be angry. You have no idea how much it hurts for me to have been away for two months. I don't know when you'll read this, but hopefully it'll be before I'm back. I guess, I'll see you later. -SH."

John was crying harder now. The letter was blown from his hand and out to the street. "What cruel man wrote this?" He muttered, shaking his head. "What cruel bastard would do that to me?" He had thought someone was playing a prank on him. Someone had read his letters and had written this. Then, he closed his eyes and spread his arms wide. "Good bye, Sherlock."

He inched his foot forward slowly. The door behind him slammed open. "JOHN!" The voice shouted. He spun around, his wet eyes widening. His foot slipped and he started to fall backwards. "JOHN, NO!"

The man shouting his name ran forward and grabbed John's hand right before he could fall to his death. When he looked up, he found himself staring into the most startling blue eyes. "Sherlock." He muttered, almost breathless.

Sherlock Holmes was leaning over the edge, holding John's hand to keep him from hitting the pavement. His face was scrunched up in concentration. His other hand grabbed John's as well, trying to pull him up. It wasn't long before John was in Sherlock's arms and they were hugging each other tightly. "John, what were you thinking?" He asked, for once not rambling on with an answer to his own question, even though he knew it.

John looked up at Sherlock with fresh tears in his eyes. "How is it possible?" He asked, keeping his arms around the taller man's waist. "How are you..?" He pulled away. "I saw you die!"

Sherlock's face was blank, except for the look in his eyes he was unreadable. "I didn't die, John." John was shaking his head violently. "Please, John. LISTEN TO ME." He shouted. John stood still and looked at Sherlock with surprise on his face. Without another word, he hugged him tightly. "Happy Valentine's Day, John Hamish Watson."

_****_

John and Sherlock caught a taxi and drove home. John was holding onto Sherlock's hand. He refused to let go, in case Sherlock disappeared on him. Mycroft and Molly were sitting in the flat. Mrs. Hudson was yelling at Mycroft when they walked in. "You left him here, all alone! He stopped eating for a WEEK." She faced Molly, "And YOU. You left Lestrade! What is WRONG WITH THE BOTH OF YOU!"

"That will be enough, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson gasped and turned around. "Sherlock... But you... and-" She turned to Molly and Mycroft who were grinning and nodding. Molly was actually pulling out her phone to text Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson quickly ran forward and hugged Sherlock.

Mycroft stood up to fix his suit and walk towards the door. "I must go. I'll be around for dinner." He left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Sherlock smiled at Molly and Mrs. Hudson.

"If you'll excuse us, I've got some things to discuss with John." He said, pulling John up the stairs behind him. They reached his room where all the ripped letters were laying. He pulled one out of his pocket. It was the one John had dropped. "You never read the back." He said, handing it out to him. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting for John to read it.

John accepted the letter and turned it to the back. He started to cry again. The words had read: "I love you."

_**The End**_


End file.
